


arrhythmia.

by Lefauxlucifer



Category: Love Live! School Idol Festival (Video Game), Love Live! School Idol Project
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hospital, F/F, Hospital Sex, POV Second Person, Sort of a character study
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-23
Updated: 2018-12-23
Packaged: 2019-09-25 04:55:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17114894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lefauxlucifer/pseuds/Lefauxlucifer
Summary: In which Nico proves quite adept at embroidery and Maki learns she has zero taste.





	arrhythmia.

**Author's Note:**

> arrhythmia can actually be life-threatening just fyi so if someone tells you that you made their heart skip a beat, please direct them to a licensed medical professional for their own well-being.

It’s a thin line to you, the one between inconvenience and hardship, and it’s a classification that makes _all_ the difference, because you’re no stranger to adversity, even if you grew up with an allowance that closely matched the total household income of your peers.

 

Okay, so you never had to worry about your next meal or college or any of those _trivial_ things, but you’ve stomached professors who were _incapable_ of grasping your true potential, tempered yourself through the insensitive _trial-by-fire_ of residency, even endured an incalculable number of those _mind-numbing_ conventions for a shot at presenting your ambitious work to someone who might actually care.

 

The bottom line is that your nerves of steel _aren’t_ to be trifled with, and when they are, it’s _blissfully_ evident that _you_ have backbone.

 

Whereas your colleagues rely on their background and blood ties, you depend on an iron resolve and a mind unrivaled.

 

But this?

 

This isn’t so. . .straightforward.

 

It’s because this is one of those _nuisances_ that you’re unable to deal with it efficiently.

 

It’s why, in the heat of the moment, you reveal you have a thing for _older_ women, in a vain attempt to _subtly_ spurn her: a nurse who can’t distinguish between a scalpel from a curette, much less ascertain the obvious—Hell would freeze over long before she’d catch your fancy.

 

And you're fuming the second you're off the clock: the _exalted_ Nishikino Maki shouldn’t have to endure such immaturity, such idiocy, and such blatant disregard for your own stance on those matters—you didn’t breeze through med school with _flying_ colors to get _hit on_ by an intern.

 

It was an _explicit_ part of your hiring process for a reason, and that's why it's so unpleasant when she _confesses_ —you haven't had to reject anyone since you started here.

 

But if you could have, you wish you had handled that ‘incident’ better, though it means you learn how quickly word gets around among your staff.

 

Because within a week, you get five more declarations—each from girls who are progressively bustier than the last, and that—that’s not what you meant by older, not in the slightest.

 

It's _downright_ insulting, re: you’re not interested.

 

And if you were, you have moxie. You’re not the type to shy away from your own feelings—or lack thereof.

 

And why on Earth did they think you meant _that_ , in the first place? You don't have a chest complex or anything. You really don't. It’s not at all part of the criteria you’ve developed to select the ideal partner.

 

All you require is someone whose wealth rivals your own, someone who can be dealt with efficiently, who can follow orders and isn’t a complete numbskull.

 

You don’t ask for much, but apparently, this means you have standards, and your parents, oddly enough, have the cheek to ask whether you care if they marry off to whosoever catches their eye.

 

Maybe they do so to brush off the remnants of an untoward _guilt_ , one that’s developed as they’ve _forced_ expectation after expectation upon your head? It’s only by chance and providence that they haven’t made you shoulder the weight of the world.

 

But quite frankly, you don’t care if you end up alone, even if recent studies denote that interpersonal relationships bring fulfillment.

 

Your personal happiness means little to you—always has, always will.

 

Why else would you torture yourself with the monotony of medicine?

 

Thankfully, it stops after that. There's nothing out of the ordinary, no patterns, no _twists of fate_.

 

The entire ordeal doesn't even cross your mind _once_ , after the fact.

 

Or at least, not until they make _you_ fill in for a pediatrician.

 

Now, truth be told, it's not like you’re forced to.

 

It's just your responsibility to ensure there aren't any _vacancies_ , but you could've just _called_ in a favor or two.

 

Is it because you're a _hopeless_ workaholic?

 

Or maybe, because it's _your_ queendom?

 

The Nishikino name has had a plethora of things attached to it since you last checked, back in high school, but this—the _famed_ general hospital on the hill where it all started—is yours, all yours, and it's all you’ve ever wanted, the control, the power, the _absolute_ influence.

 

And when they talk, it's not about your parents, not anymore. It's about _you_.

 

So taking up tasks which are _vastly_ beneath her Majesty (all hail) isn't disconcerting; for you, it's just business as usual.

 

You knock-and-enter the room briskly, with the necessary files in hand; you've already given the content a once-over, but you’re always too careful.

 

To your displeasure, no amount of caution could’ve thwarted the child whirling around in your rolling chair, something that really isn't supposed to throw you off your game—not after what you've seen—but it does.

 

It does, and you take a deep, compulsory breath.

 

❝ Kokoro? I'd appreciate it if you could give up the seat for a couple minutes, kay? I just have to sit down and type some things up, and then you can play around with it while I talk to your sister, ❞ you articulate in the nicest possible professional voice you can muster, given that you’ve slept for the bare minimum of 5 hours.

 

The other woman—the legal guardian, you presume—is laughing uncontrollably, and you dismiss it as one of those. . .family quirks. They look familiar, you deliberate, while they sort out their issues.

 

They’re both well-dressed. . .even if one has a severe deficiency of elegance. You wouldn’t put it past the older one to be a washed-up child actress, or something of the sort.

 

It’s frivolous, but you reminisce: you yourself were bound for the stage, once upon a time.

 

It’s how all fairy tales start; you’re just disappointed yours didn’t end like one.

 

The girl in question is _morbidly_ embarrassed, but it's her own fault, you muse, as you set the tablet computer on the desk.

 

You call her name again, just slightly perplexed. The one in the chair has her arms crossed, chin tilted to the ground, eyebrows raised, and the mature one is patiently awaiting your instruction.

 

❝ Yes, ma'am? ❞ she responds promptly, a hint of a smile on her face, and you surmise that the quiet, pragmatic one's your patient, not the one who looks like she wants to murder you in cold blood.

 

You've never suppressed a snicker so much in your life.

 

And you know, she _deserves_ it for throwing your world into momentary disarray, and you’ve been told you need to loosen up, besides—and by your own parents, of all people. A snide remark here and there isn’t going to do anyone any harm, you affirm.

 

They're likely a full four inches apart in height, anyways, and probably a few decades apart in mental age.  What were you supposed to think?

 

So you proceed with the usual set of questions, and it goes smoothly, considering it's been a while since you've done this.

 

In fact, it's flawless—you're flawless—, and it's only the _incessant_ tapping of her four-inch heels (she’s definitely compensating for something) that’s infuriating.

 

To her credit, she speaks fluently when you give her the side eye—you’ve been told you’re nothing short of breathtaking—, and you still find it difficult to believe they're siblings.

 

Maybe, you think, this is why they told you to be glad you didn’t have any.

 

But she has the gall to go and _demand_ an apology and ask _you_ if you live under a rock, because you don’t know just who _she_ is, what with her being a _huge_ celebrity, a future household name.

 

As _if._

 

It’s her who should feel grateful to have met you, the ninth wonder of the world (eighth is tomatoes), and you do your best to ensure _that_ gets through her _dense_ skull. Honestly, the nerve.

 

❝ You can't act like that and expect a bystander to assume differently. What are you, _twelve_? ❞ you austerely chastise. Losing one patient won't put a dent in your profit margins, and if it's her, you're better off. You haven't had genuine enjoyment in a while, and you'll be damned if you can't throw your fair share of shade.

 

❝ Yeah, on a scale of one to ten, ❞ she ripostes without missing a beat (even though your heart may have), and for a second, you think she's trying to be funny (you wouldn’t know; you had your sense of humor surgically removed seven years ago).

 

She's evidently not, so that's the second time she's been wrong in the span of a half-hour, but whatever. You finish up without another word to her, but instead, you instruct her sister to go chat with that one secretary, Honoka—you vaguely recollect; not that it matters—they're not coming back, but it’s a procedural thing.

 

And you think the sugar rush from those lollipops might pacify that demon-child and her bizarre, capricious nature.

 

As she leaves, her head is turned, her arms are crossed, and even without a clear view of her spine, you can tell she’s slouching.

 

If you didn’t know any better, you’d say she’s indignant.

 

It elicits a wry laugh, which in turn simply prompts her to flip you off before she closes the door, and it’s sidesplitting. You’re compelled to comment, but you don’t want to spoil the fun.

 

Your staff, on the other hand, looks alarmed. Have they really never seen you smile?

 

* * *

 

 

You're never wrong.

 

Wrong and you are, for all practical purposes, two words that haven’t yet been used concurrently.

 

And you, you’d like to keep it that way. It's one of those things you bring up, when people lament your inability to wash dishes or cook a five-course meal, one of those things that shuts them right up and gets them all defensive and leaves you knowing you can't be beat.

 

But you're not wrong, technically speaking.

 

 _They_ don't come back.

 

 _She_ does.

 

With a news crew.

 

She's in some _obscene_ outfit, one that disgraces your venerated Santa Claus, all while leaving little to the imagination—not that you were looking—, and she’s authorized to be here, you suppose as you make a mental note to scrutinize exactly how this flew under _your_ radar.

 

In the meantime, you learn that that there’s more to her than just looking half her age; she has _a_ personality, however lacking it might be, that she _is_ camera-worthy—and there are, in fact, people with so little taste that the mere sight of this twin-tailed imp wouldn’t _nauseate_ them in an instant.

 

And it makes you _scowl_.

 

Your management is _immaculate_ , but even you had to accept that good publicity couldn’t hurt.

 

Not to mention, she's legally allowed to go about spreading joy and cheer to those who don't have so long to live (even if it doesn’t change how miserable you are), and your ego (and skilled personal firm of lawyers) doesn’t have a say in the matter.

 

So it's altogether touching, you'd say, if you didn’t have that feeling in your gut, the one that tells you she’s doing this simply out of spite.

 

She’s got that look in her eyes, triumphant and _smug_. It’s _instantly_ recognizable.

 

Because it’s _yours_.

 

They leave, and she’s about to follow, but you’ll be damned if you let her (not that you already aren’t).

 

The two of you are going to have a chat—a civil discourse about the lingering in the back of your head at odd hours of the night, about the absurd amount of vodka you’ve downed only to learn that sorrows can swim, about the irrational amount of your thoughts that are about her, considering how little time you’ve spent together, if it can even be called that.

 

What started off as a routine appointment to her was undeniably something _more_ to you, to you, who’s went about her days avoiding unnecessary interaction, circumventing altercations with your clientele. To you, she’s a breath of fresh air, a poignant anomaly in a sea of normalcy.

 

Perhaps, it’s not knowing if you mean _anything_ to her that’s altogether _unsettling_.

 

And paired with how this little game of chess isn’t going your way, how it’s _hardly_ a game to begin with, how you have so few options, it makes for a dreadfully aggravating combination.

 

You’re left with little choice in the matter.

 

It’s your finishing move, the way in which you throw her off-balance. A last resort, one you’ve saved for the particularly troublesome.

 

It’s supposed to make her heart _lurch_.

 

But instead, yours _does_.

 

When you stare her down, her grin only morphs into a _sneer_ , as if she expected more from you.

 

It’s reminiscent of what your parents used to do to you when you came home with anything less than perfection. You weren’t supposed to come home at all.

 

You’re awfully reminded that you’re never good enough—never have been, never will be—, and mercy is thereby out of the question.

 

In a few decades, you’ll inherit the bits and pieces of the world that aren’t yours yet. There won’t be any room left for insolence.

 

Even now, your influence extends to all corners of the globe. You could end this girl’s career as a harlot (she’s definitely dressing the part) in the same amount of time it takes you to brew instant coffee.

 

And she should be _thankful_ that you haven’t already—but just to remind her that you can, you tug harshly on the collar of that skimpy excuse of a jacket she’s wearing.

 

She’s vexing, a real piece of work, because she does this _thing_ to you—this thing which makes you want to leave marks all over her, but you obviously don’t—can’t.

 

You tune out that _insipid_ , superfluous voice in your head and you check your FitBit (an unwanted gift from an equally-unwanted cousin). 108, a staunch deviation from your usual 88, and it’s perplexing, considering you’re not doing any form of cardio.

 

She’s clearly messing with you.

 

And until you show her up, nothing’s changing.

 

 You elect for a chaste yet dynamic kiss, one that lets her know exactly how much she’ll regret it if she ever crosses you again—though you’ll admit, you’d enjoy yourself if she does.

 

It’s a first. You’re not expecting her to kiss you back. No one’s ever had the audacity (or utter lack of common sense) to _resist_ , and she’s not even fighting you, per se.

 

She’s just following your lead—or trying to take it from you, but her opposition isn’t enough to overwhelm, and you’d bet good money that’s intentional. It’s a welcome _albeit_ unsolicited clemency, and you acknowledge that you don’t mind the _hands on your neck_ pulling you closer as much as you _should_.

 

And you do want to comment on the sickeningly-sweet fragrance permeating the air, but weirdly enough, you don’t feel like that’s a sufficient reason to interrupt a moment this _indulgent_.

 

Nothing else quite compares, and though you’re _still_ not interested, you’ll be _damned_ if you let this go any further than it has.

 

It’s intimate.

 

And lethal.

 

 To your career, and moreover, to your sanity.

 

You pull away first, and that’s the end of it. You say not a word further and part ways understanding just a little bit more about each other and a little bit less about yourselves, but that doesn’t matter, not to you. You don’t care.

 

And you keep on not caring.

 

But maybe, just maybe, you go home that night, plop down on the couch, switch on the TV, and flip through the channels to see if she shows up. For research purposes.

 

* * *

 

 

You could write a thesis or two with what you’d learned about her—about the _illustrious_ Yazawa Nico, so you’ve found, and what you’re doing to yourself _isn’t_ healthy in the _slightest_ , but that doesn’t exactly stop you from doing it.

 

She’s a mildly-popular idol with a fanbase as trashy as she is, you discover, and the type of music involved is nothing short of _blasphemous_.

 

Beethoven is rolling in his grave as your eardrums promptly _burst_ , and the only salvation in all of it is h̶e̶r̶ ̶v̶o̶i̶c̶e̶ that it’s at max, two full minutes of tempestual, unadulterated _suffering_ , no more. And even that’s too much for your fragile sanity.

 

You’re eerily drawn to it, nonetheless. She has this vague, inexplicable charisma, but after your last engagement. . .honestly, you’re waiting for her to blackmail you, or act like she’s never seen you before _in her life_ , and while the latter is preferable, someone of your stature expects the former, and you chide yourself.

 

You’re not a kid, not anymore. What would your parents think, if they heard about you _canoodling_ with some—some unwashed knave who can’t distinguish Bach from Tchaikovsky?

 

You haven’t had your name associated with a single scandal since your career began, and even her poor choice of clothing is a gossip journal _in the making_. You’re not about to start now.

 

So it’s only natural that you change your ringtone from Stravinsky’s Firebird, from a prized recording of the last time you tickled the ivories—when you, a mere child of seventeen years, trounced those _experienced_ virtuosos to claim an evening with a symphony orchestra your associates would _kill_ to hear in concert, when you had reached the pinnacle of _perfection,_ and your parents, who had season tickets, saw you perform for the first (and last time) and afforded you mild praise—to her latest song, to remind yourself of just how far you've fallen from grace, just how god-awful _her_ judgement is, so that when your persistently _self-destructive_ mind brings her up, when the chill of Winter is starting to get to you, when you finally get to lie down and you realize your bed can fit _two_ , you’ll truly fathom that you’re really better off without that devil-child.

 

You’re starting to think that you’ve been set up, as if you had the required acumen to appear refined all your life, and just when you need it most, it’s vanished into thin air.

 

It doesn’t help that her feet are dangling off the examination table, or that the length of her skirt is almost as short as she is.

 

❝ What do you want? ❞ you ask callously, not concerned with the answer so much as you are getting her to leave you in peace. It’s hot in here and you’re not positive whether it’s because you chose today, of all days, to wear a pantsuit, or if your air conditioning is broken, or if it’s because of her—and you’re quite sure why, actually, which is the reason you’d prefer it if this reunion was cut short, short like her, and that’s just peachy, because now she’s back on the mind.

 

You wonder if it’s not a fluke, that she’s managed to schedule both appointments on the exact days that the routine doctor is off. You meant to look into it the first time, and you threw a note on your fridge after she dropped by for Christmas, but it’s slipped your mind since. There’s been a lot on your plate, and your personal life, if it even exists, is the last of your disorganized priorities.

 

But she’s certainly not here because she needs medical assistance, you’re convinced of that much.

 

And you don’t have to check her out or anything to know that, you don’t have to let your eyes follow the distinct curvature of her calves (because it’s nothing compared to the view you every time you look in the mirror); she just appears to be in peak physical condition, and you wouldn’t put it past her to be involved in some forbidden type of magic, either, because there isn’t a trace of stress underneath her eyes, even with (you assume) a complicated work-life balance, again, not that you care.

 

❝ Are you an option, doctor? ❞ she innocently inquires, _batting_ those absurdly-long eyelashes of hers as if it’s going to change anything. God, she’s _so_ full of herself.

 

If you weren’t profusely appalled, you might have been in awe of just how much _senselessness_ one human being can possess.

 

And you won’t deny, if she can keep that mouth of hers shut, she might even be _tolerable_.

 

It’s a crying shame she can’t.

 

❝ _That_ isn’t covered by your insurance, ❞ you stress, hoping she’ll take the hint and make like a tree.

 

But she doesn’t. You think she never will, and you can’t quite figure out whether she’s guided by tenacity or foolishness.

 

It doesn’t matter. You want to be rid of her, and it can’t happen fast enough.

 

But all it takes is one look at you with those captivating eyes of hers, and you’re _smitten_. Before you can stop yourself, your hand _stumbles_ onto her thigh and she’s got you by the necktie.

 

It’s not long until you find yourself hiking her skirt up, inch by inch, as if you _want_ her to know exactly what she does to you—and unfortunately for your waning self-control, that isn’t a whole lot of inches. Before you can stop yourself, you’re tracing black lace trim, slowly, _deliberately_ , for however long it takes for her to tell you she wants something _more_.

 

You know she does, of course she does, otherwise she wouldn’t have come to you, but hearing it from her is a _rush_ , and your thumb _hooks_ around the elastic of well-designed lingerie, separating her from it, and though you don’t tell her, the pink bow is a nice touch. She might not have class, but she does have _style_.

 

So do you, by the way she bites her bottom lip as your fingertips _slip_ past thin cloth with ease and _press_ against her, and then, _into_ her as her breathing _hitches_.

 

She doesn’t object, and that’s a first.

 

It’s even curious—how she _leans_ into your touch, arches her back, and you can’t help but want to give her due recompense. Curiosity killed the cat, so you’ve been told, but satisfaction brought it back, and nothing is more _gratifying_ than watching her try in vain to maintain her composure, than feeling her tighten up around you, than listening to her cry your name, and you’ve never been fonder of a sound.

 

It doesn’t bother you one bit that she’s relishing every minute of this, that she’s deriving some sick, _twisted_ pleasure from watching you cast away the worries of the daily grind, from how you let loose with her and give in to those sinister inclinations, the ones you wouldn’t _dare_ express with any of those _cultured_ , uptight posers.

 

And when her self-assured voice morphs into a series of gasps, of ragged, wanton breaths, of squeaks that underscore her impressive range, you can’t not withdraw.

 

She’s slow on the uptake, but when it registers, the only thing that comes out of her mouth is a soft, frustrated _whine_.

 

❝ Maki- _chan_ ’s so cruel, ❞ she castigates, ❝ leading me on like that. How many years have you had a dry spell for, anyways? ❞

 

It’s uncalled for, and the look on your face is nothing if not _unladylike_. It’s a nasty glower and gritted teeth, and even if you’re a fiddle and she’s an experienced violinist, you’re going to come out on top.

 

You don’t know who gave her permission to throw caution to the wind with these honorifics, either, but you’d like to keep the conversation to a minimum, so without so much as a warning, you _curl_ your fingers and pick up where you left off, hastily, maliciously, dragging along the plush heat of her inner walls. You should make her _beg_ for it, but that alone—that _elicits_ everything you want out of her: eyes closed shut, bottom lip _quivering_ , and the moment you think she’s close, you kick it up a notch.

 

Or three.

 

And when you go easy on her, she has the _hardest_ time remaining irate, and maybe it’s because she fears a repeat of _that_ , or maybe, it’s just because no one can stay mad at you for long, because you’re good at what you do, and you know it.

 

So this time, you can’t exactly bring yourself to _stop_.

 

It’s none of your concern, that she’s _whimpering_ into your neck after the first one, or kinda, sorta _violently_ shuddering after the second—you’re not content, not yet, and that’s what really matters, isn’t it?

 

You only concede after the third because you lose feeling in your fingers but Nico really doesn’t need to know your limits, regardless of if there’s going to be a second time. You’re unsure of if she’d even care, because last you checked, her head’s gone slack on your shoulder, and it’s an uninvited but not quite undesirable warmth, per se: the same type of feeling you’ve been longing for on those cold winter nights.

 

You have to remind yourself to breathe afterwards, and that’s never a good sign.

 

You examine your pulse and this time, it’s nothing but _erratically_ high, which—which is fine, you dismiss. You’ve been in dire need of a good workout, and so, having spent a full hour over what you’d allotted for said visit is but marginally distressing.

 

So it’s a chore to refrain from pulling your hair out and agonizing over everything that could’ve possibly went awry in your absence, but you manage to wait until she’s fully regained consciousness and picked herself up.

 

You even keep calm long enough for her to deliver a final quip, and you’re too generous, really—giving an inch to someone who’s going to take a mile, someone who already has.

 

But you can handle your fair share of sarcasm. You _invented_ sarcasm.

 

What you can’t handle is her _not_ opting for a witticism of any kind—and that’s the scary part, because as much as you could navigate the perilous waters before, you can’t just get a grip while that charming number _glides_ past her knees, past her ankles, past the same pair of _insufferable_ four-inch heels and is _slingshotted_ into your _pure_ , unsullied hands.

 

There’s something _etched_ into the waistband in clean, legible white, and you know exactly where this is going.

 

 She leaves, but not before tossing you a pair of finger guns and a telling _wink_ to go with it, and you enter the ten digits into your phone on a whim, on a rash, _inane_ whim, and it’s not even so you can _block_ her number.

 

You exhale sharply at the thought of it. You’re going to have a _minor_ aneurysm if she’s _not_ free Thursday night.

 

And unfortunately for you, she _is_.

**Author's Note:**

> oh gods it's been forever and the dynamic still kills me.
> 
> anyways hope u enjoyed this melodramatic mess of a oneshot 2nd person is so underused.
> 
> and yes, it's 100% all nozomi's fault.


End file.
